Back to Broken
by Ever Ebony
Summary: Post 2x10  and possibly 2x11 . Fleeing Russia following a confrontation at the Udinov mansion, Nikita and Alex take a quiet moment on a train to discuss the developments in their lives. Told from Alex's POV.


I peer across the train compartment at Nikita. Her eyes are shut, but I know she's not asleep. Her hand is too tense, resting lightly on the pocket where her gun is stored. Her breathing is too controlled; I recognize the measured inhales and exhales from the dark nights in her loft when she was trying to trick herself into sleep. Her lips are too pursed; when she sleeps, her mouth hangs open awkwardly – perhaps the only awkward thing she does. Maybe that's why I like it so much.

When Nikita first took me in, when she was training me to go undercover, it seemed like everything she did was perfect. She moved and spoke with such confidence and purpose, while I was still pretending. One afternoon, she fell asleep against the desk, her head resting awkwardly on her outstretched arm, most likely exhausted from one of the nightmares she pretended not to have every night.

I remember how oddly happy I was at the moment I found her like that. She had let her guard down. She trusted me. It was the first moment I felt at home. The expansive loft with its high ceilings and stretching floorboards felt full, and – if I squinted just right – I had a family.

Now, I don't know what I have. The mother I thought was dead, my flesh and blood, is alive and possibly involved in the murder of my father and subsequent abandonment, while Nikita – the person I had not so long ago trusted most in the world – no longer trusts me, no longer feels safe in my presence. Do I feel safe in hers? I wonder. The woman had shot me recently – yet another person hurting me under the guise of protecting me.

"You awake?" I mumble across the aisle, giving her a chance to feign sleep. She opens her eyes, and meets my gaze.

"What's up?" Suddenly, I don't know what to say. There's no Chicken Soup book on this sort of thing. Instead, I shrug.

Nikita leans forward in her seat, resting her forearms on her thighs. "Alex, there's nothing wrong with being freaked out by all of this," she tells me. She moves to put her hand on my knee, but changes her mind, apparently as unsure as I am where we stand. "You can't train for this kind of thing. Sometimes, life just lays you out, and there's nothing you can do about it."

I grit my teeth. "You can fight. You can never stop," I tell her with a steely gaze, a little angry at her about-face. For the past year, I have been able to count on her single-minded ambition, on Nikita never letting anything compromise her mission. "That's what _you_ taught me."

She sighs, leaning back against the seat. "Sometimes, you're just...too tired."

I study Nikita as she gazes out the window. She looks exhausted, dark shadows under her eyes, standing out against her pallid complexion. She cups her left elbow gingerly with her hand. She must have injured it in the fight; I can see a bruise already forming.

"It goes by so fast," she says absentmindedly, and it takes me a moment to realize she is talking about the countryside flying past. "It's impossible to hold onto anything, isn't it?" She laughs, but there is no humor in it. Then again, maybe she is not talking about the countryside.

I narrow my eyes. "Where's Michael?" I ask, trying to keep my tone nonchalant. Her gaze snaps back to me.

"He's off with Owen, tracking the remaining Guardians," she tells me, but her eyes are dark. They reject any attempt to see past her calm facade. I am ready to drop the line of questioning, not really caring to upset our fragile truce, when she continues. "He has a son."

That grabs my attention. "What?" I exclaim, moving across the aisle to sit next to her. "When did this happen?" Maybe I shouldn't be asking, but the woman obviously wants to talk about it. She probably doesn't have anyone else to talk to, I realize. Birkhoff isn't exactly the Dr. Phil-type. Besides, I have always been fascinated by Nikita and Michael's relationship, that something so strong could come out of a place like Division. Sometimes, when I am being particularly brave or foolish, I wonder if Thom and I could have had something similar one day.

"He found out a few months ago," Nikita says, turning towards me as the explanation continues. "His mother was one of Michael's marks five years ago."

"And Division strikes again," I quip. "They really find the most creative ways of screwing up people's lives."

"It's not like that," she insists. "He's really sweet." A small smile forms on her face. "His name is Max. Apparently, he calls me 'the gun lady.'"

I let out a laugh, and it feels good. "He's got you pegged," I tell her. "I'm guessing the mother isn't so fond of you?"

Nikita shrugs, but her smile drops. "I told Michael to stay with them, to figure things out. I can't rob him of another chance at a family."

I frown. I am impressed with Nikita's selfless act, but not surprised. Deep down, I don't know if Nikita thinks she deserves happiness. "But he's back?" I press on. "What did he say?"

"We didn't really get a chance to chat. One minute, he was saving me from certain death at the hands of Gogol's goons, and the next, I was following Gogol to your backyard." I rest my head against the cushioned back of the seat-bench, taking it all in.

We sit in silence for a few minutes before Nikita turns back to me. "I am being so thoughtless," she says. "Going on about the soap opera that is my life when you have a bigger one of your own." I tense up under her gaze. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it," she backs up, obviously reading my discomfort.

I take a big breath. "Nikita, what did you know about the mission to kill my family? I mean, besides what you've already told me."

"You mean, do I know if your mother was involved?" she asks, brows furrowed in concern. Afraid to speak, to chicken out, I keep my mouth shut and nod my head. "I'm sorry, Alex. I don't know anything about that part of it. I was expected to follow the order, not to ask questions."

A part of me is relieved to delay the answer a bit longer. Another part, waits in anxiety. When I first saw my mother, there was nothing but pure, unadulterated joy. It filled me up to the very top, made me feel whole again. As soon as my brain caught up with my heart, though, the questions started. The joy was still there, but it didn't fill as much of me anymore, and in the places it used to be crept doubt. The doubt spread like a cancer through me and before I knew it, my joy had cracked. I had cracked. Back to broken.

I had wanted to stay, had wanted to get answers, but Nikita made me leave. She practically pulled me out of there. In retrospect, I realize it was that doubt that allowed it. If it had felt like home, I never would have left.

"I need to know," I tell her as I realize it myself. "I'm _so_ sick of being lied to." My voice cracks, and my eyes fill with tears. "I'm tired, too," I tell her, as tears wet my cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," she says, and her arms are around me, pulling me towards her. "I am so sorry," she repeats again and again.

I don't know who she is apologizing for. If it is for her lies, or my mother's, or Division's, or the world's. Maybe it is for the lies I tell myself. She would know because Nikita and I tell the same lies, you see: that we don't need a family, that we can survive on our own, that revenge will make us whole again.

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze tight because I have to hold onto something. Who knows what will happen when this train stops? When we get back to America? When our purposes put us at odds again? Right now, it doesn't matter. Right now, Nikita is enough.


End file.
